Category: Uncategorized

In defense of ‘Chapter Two’: ‘It’ Has a Lot to Say

The highly-anticipated sequel to the 2017 hit isn’t perfect, but packs a poignant punch.

This article contains spoilers for It Chapter Two.

I’m sorry to the critics, but “It Chapter Two” rocked. Was it long? Yeah. Could they have cut a few things? Definitely. Was it quite as good as the first movie? I wouldn’t say so. But watching so many people just pass it off as a crappy sequel makes me feel like everyone is missing the point. 

When “It” came out in 2017, the horror genre was in the midst of a resurgence in both quality and popularity. After years of the most successful horror films being mostly “Paranormal Activity” sequels, 2017 offerings such as “Get Out” and “Happy Death Day” were already beginning to remind movie fans why we liked horror in the first place.

Then, like a cherry on top, from out of the depths of development hell came “It”; yet another Stephen King adaptation that nobody asked for, some had remarked…except this film, much to audiences’ surprise, broke through the skin of horror tropes to deliver a powerful coming-of-age story about dealing with fear and grief at a young age. With rave reviews, a near immediate fan following and millions of dollars at the box office in tow, “It Chapter One” left quite a large pair of clown shoes for its sequel to fill. And – honestly? I think “It”…worked.

Just to get it out of the way quickly, let’s address the technicality of this movie. I strongly admired director Andy Muschietti’s take on the first film, and “Chapter Two,” in my opinion, easily topped its predecessor’s film-making prowess. There are shots that will haunt me and inspire my cinematic little heart no doubt for years to come, and little connections made that give new meaning to the first film (am I the only one that noticed the explanation for why Beverly was woken up with drops of blood in the first film? Am I the only one who immediately started to cry as soon as I realized?). But the best thing about “It Chapter Two,” the thing that made me whisper to myself in the theater, “Man, this movie is great!” is the way it deals with the themes of the first movie.

The first movie was about fears in your childhood. How powerful and potent they are. It’s about your first brushes with grief and trauma. In “Chapter One,” each of the young Losers’ visions of It stood for something much deeper on the inside that they were dealing with. Bill’s visions of Georgie manifested his grief and guilt over his brother’s death. The flutist haunting Stan represents his fear of confrontation. Eddie’s leper isn’t just a fear of illness, but of death; disgusting, ugly death, or worse; the prison of being morbidly, grotesquely ill and not dying. It, the being, represented these fears that began to grow inside the Losers in their youth.

At the end of the first film, they thought they had overcome It. They had faced It together and chased it away; threw it deep, deep down and called it a day. But It was still there, like they say in “Chapter Two;” inside them, like a virus. It followed them around, and grew inside them. When they left Derry – when they grew up – they pushed those memories down; tried to forget. But, try as they might to escape, they all got stuck in the sludge of their traumas. Bev married someone just as physically abusive as her father. Eddie married someone just as emotionally abusive as his mother. Ben got into shape, became ridiculously wealthy, but still felt insignificant. Richie kept pushing his feelings down and making jokes instead. Bill wrote his feelings down – much like Steven Crain in “The Haunting of Hill House” – but he couldn’t write a real ending, because he himself never got closure.

Then when they came back, they thought that the way to defeat It would just be to simply relive their trauma and move on – to find and “burn” everything that tied them to It. But that was never going to work. They had to face It. They had to realize that they were in control. They had to make It small. 

So, on a basic thematic level, “Chapter Two” already made itself the logical conclusion to the first film. But more than that, it expanded on and even explained many of the other things from the first film.

Now that the Losers are adults, their fears from the first movie have grown up as well. The film received quite a bit of flack for spending much of its second act focusing on individual “fear palaces” for each of the individual Losers, incorporating in flashbacks to their younger selves and showing us… just a bunch of scary hallucinations. I do admit, on a surface level, this feels like a waste of watch-time in a nearly 3-hour movie, but in context of the greater messages the film has to offer, it is all too necessary.

The way I saw it, this narrative tactic expands the Losers’ fears from the very basic things that we saw in the first movie to much deeper, more nuanced versions. For a few examples; Mike’s fear of fire/burned hands was really a fear of letting go of his parents, something we then see him transfer onto his quest against It. Although they said Richie was afraid of clowns, what he was most afraid of was being unloved; he was afraid of himself, because he didn’t know how to address his own feelings. This actually an interesting take, because it shows how in childhood you don’t really understand your fears, they’re very basic; primal, even. But when you grow older, you know exactly what you’re afraid of, and sometimes even why you’re afraid of it. By showing us all the Losers experiencing this (except Mike, whose true feelings need to stay hidden for the final battle plot twist to work), we learn about and intensely connect to them, (and, though unrelated to this point, we are also able to mentally connect them to their younger counterparts more believably.)

Then, you might ask, why add the second mind palace go-round right before the final battle? They’ve addressed the Losers’ fears; why the scenes with Bill in the basement, or Bev in the bathroom or Ben in the clubhouse? It’s like I mentioned before; because the way to overcome trauma is not to bury It like the kids did in “Chapter One,” or revisit and burn It like they tried in the ritual of Chüd. It’s to look It straight in the face. Bev had to look at all the people who had abused her and kick the stall door out. Ben had to face the things he had thought about himself for so long and realize that he was not defined by the names he used to be called. Bill had to see that the only person who had ever thought that Georgie’s death was his fault was himself.

Upon consideration, there’s a thematic explanation for pretty much everything critics griped about after this film came out – “Richie wasn’t overtly gay enough?” Yes. The point was not that he needed to tell everyone – or anyone – he was gay, the point was that he had to overcome the fear of himself he had harbored for so long. It’s actually conceptually beautiful the way that the film subverted the concept that it was his great big secret, into a final tribute to Eddie: it’s our little secret.

How about the often seen “It’s not scary enough?” Well, my friends, I’m sure many people would disagree with you, but I also posit another theory: it isn’t supposed to be.

If we consider the concept that the first film was portrayed as if seen through a child’s eyes, and this is seen through that of an adult, it honestly would make sense why the first film might have seemed scarier than this one. Visual scares just aren’t as frightening the older you get. Many would agree that even in the first film, the most unnerving scenes were the Losers’ interactions with people, not It. This is because It, in every circumstance, can be taken for a very graphic manifestation of fear, and the concept of fear is not half as scary as the experience of it.

And now, what about the ending? To be fair, I don’t think any of us expected Bill Hader yelling “Sloppy B—-!” to be the key to destroying one of the most well-known horror villains of all time. But that ending, as strange as it might seem, was needed to hammer the message home, and I’m personally ecstatic that writer Gary Dauberman chose to depart from the book’s ending for the sake of the fulfillment of the themes set up in the first film.

The intense, comprehensive themes presented in both the first and second “It” films, in my opinion, just can’t be ignored when looking at them with a critical eye. The metaphors that build the foundation of these films fundamentally change the meaning and import of certain scenes. For example: it’s no coincidence that the time between when It strikes is about 30 years (exactly 30, in the book). 30 years is one generation. It returns for every new generation of children, because every new generation of children is afraid of something. And the Losers can’t do anything to stop that. That’s the point of the carnival scene in the middle, a scene that, after a careless analysis, very well might be the first scene to get cut.

Go ahead. Hate this film, if you’d like. If it disappointed you, it disappointed you. But I’d suggest doing one thing before you wave it away forever as a misconceived cash grab. Watch both movies, one right after the other. I’m just scratching the surface of the parallels and themes they express; look for what the writers had to say and the way that they weaved those messages between the two stories.

And then, if you happen to be a member of the Academy, vote for Bill Hader for Best Supporting Actor because seriously, guys, wow. You know he deserves it. Nothing but respect for my Richie Tozier.

‘Stranger Things 3’ and Scene Tension: Why I Will Never Stop Talking About that Hospital Chase

I break down “Stranger Things'” sure-to-be iconic hospital chase to analyze what makes it effective horror. Hit me up, Masterclass.

Warning: This article contains spoilers for Stranger Things 3.

“Stranger Things 3” was a lot.

While I thoroughly enjoyed much of the third outing of the Netflix hit, including the story, acting, aesthetic and production design, I had many issues with it, including shoddy editing, lack of character growth, odd and off-putting comedic choices, and cliche, predictable plotlines. I don’t feel it was the Duffer Brothers’ strongest output, and while it was much more interesting than “Stranger Things 2,” I would disagree with the majority of people to say that it was not, all things considered, better – maybe just the same.

However, one part of this year’s trip to Hawkins that I do believe was superior to moments in previous seasons – and, frankly, superior to most billion-dollar films and productions.

If you ask anyone who has had a conversation with me since July 4th, all I’ve been able to talk about since “Stranger Things 3” came out is episode 5’s hospital chase scene, featuring Nancy and Jonathan being attacked by two of their former bosses at The Hawkins Post, who are now being controlled by the Mind Flayer. The scene’s premise is overflowing with sci-fi potential, and director Uta Briesewitz knocks it out of the park, in a pure display of tension-building at it’s absolute finest, leading up to the terrifying reveal of the season’s big boss (or, at least, a mini-version).

This scene (or, really, collection of scenes) stood out so much to me so much because, as a film nerd that does, in fact, think too much, it immediately struck me as one that was very carefully thought out and planned to be as tense and engaging as possible. It’s actually a textbook example of how to engage a viewer in your work, and how to create tension in a scene that is convincing and not forced.

So here it is: shot-by-shot, my analysis of the “Stranger Things 3” hospital chase.

CHAPTER ONE: THE HYPEMAN

Before the scene even starts, the show is already prepping you as the audience for what’s to come.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

In this scene, the characters have a plan; go up together and check on Mrs. Driscoll. However, the lady at the check-in desk interrupts that plan by telling them; “Two at a time.” Strange as it sounds, this scene is acting almost as the “hypeman” for the scenes that follow. The sudden and inconvenient change of the characters’ expectations already provides a subtle sense of unease and upendedness to the setting.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Between this and the official “beginning” of the scene, we have another scene in which Nancy and Jonathan talk in the elevator. In an earlier episode, the two had had an argument that they hadn’t really reconciled from yet. In this scene, though, they both apologize to each other and the conversation ends on a playful note. For audience members who vehemently dislike the Jonathan/Nancy relationship, this scene might provide no impact, but for the average viewer, this scene is arguably essential in creating a natural sense of anxiety in them later. This scene quietly re-endears the audience to the two characters that the next scene will put in grave danger. Additionally, the fact that they had just reconciled “activates” the viewer’s anticipatory sense of dramatic irony, undoubtedly causing many to think “Oh man – they just reconciled – one of them is definitely about to die.”

On that note, just a quick aside; isn’t it wonderful the way our brains break down stories these days? We, as viewers, can often sense a possible setup, either physical or emotional, in a story and keep mental note of it, and allow it to adjust our expectations for what’s to come. Tl;Dr; our brains have evolved to be able to naturally locate Chekov’s gun in a story and then conclude what is going to be done with it with relative accuracy. Freaking dope.

CHAPTER TWO: MACROTENSIONS AND MICROTENSIONS

Before we finally get into the meat of the chase, I want to take a minute to recognize what makes a scary or tense scene feel scary or tense. Tension, in its purest form, is simply the concoction you get when you combine equal parts audience investment and inability to be sure of what’s going to happen next.

We’ve all probably seen that one horror/sci-fi/thriller that just tried so hard to scare you. You can tell that you’re supposed to be nervous here, but you just aren’t. Those scenes that are all characters walking down dark, narrow hallways, lights flickering, eerie music, scary creaks and groans. These kinds of things are versions of macrotensions – a word generally used in storytelling to refer simply to major aspects of a plot, but that I am expanding here to include elements of a scene that are more constant, and keep tension levels up throughout a scene.

As implied above, though, macrotensions alone do not a thriller make. We also need a healthy dose of attachment to both the characters, as well as to the result of the story (although attachment to characters is much more important). And – wouldn’t you look at that – we just established an audience attachment to Nancy and Jonathan via the elevator scene. Attachment to result of the story is less obvious, but is there directly before the scene, from that sense of unease we talked about in the lobby scene. It is also implicitly present because of the fact that this is episode 5 of season 3; while it isn’t necessary, hopefully, the audience has formed an attachment to the characters and the story over a longer period of time than the past five minutes.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Now, as the scene starts, tension building is in go-mode. We get macrotension immediately in the dimmed lights. Additionally, we begin to get some microtensions; small things in a scene that helps to rack up tension and add either to the audience’s unease, or investment in the characters or story. Little things, like the above shots of the files on the floor and the red light flashing above the door, add to our unease – as well as Nancy and Jonathan’s.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Microtension: the vase of flowers from a previous episode, knocked over and dripping water onto the floor. Something happened here. There’s nothing scarier than what we don’t know.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Macrotension: the lights begin to flicker. We see it before the characters do; another way of building audience investment by giving us crucial information that the characters don’t have.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Macrotension: the villain reveal; two characters with a personal (albeit negative) connection to Nancy and Jonathan – progressing both their and our investment in the plot, as well as the stakes.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Microtension: As Nancy and Jonathan run, Bruce walks. This portrays a sense of control on his part, and a sense of helplessness on Nancy and Jonathan’s; like they aren’t being chased, they’re being stalked.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Macrotension: the freneticism of Nancy and Jonathan’s decision making throughout the chase. For example, here: first they’re turning into the unfinished area, then Jonathan’s trying the call button, then they’re in the room and Nancy is trying the phone, all in about 30 seconds to a minute. It’s unplanned, unorganized, panicked, and you can feel that in the scene.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

In an equal but somewhat opposite observation, Jonathan has the sense to lock the door. It’s things like this that tell us that we’re dealing with fairly intelligent, competent protagonists, and the fact that they are so overwhelmed by this threat escalates its magnitude in our minds.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Microtension: The line is busy! Ah, dramatic irony. Certainly, one of the most underrated ways to build tension in a scene; the kind of thing that makes you go “Oh, come on!” This particular instance of irony utilizes many of the other techniques we’ve previously touched on; our fearful frustration with the lady at the desk helps us to empathize and therefore attach ourselves more to the characters, and the fact that we know that the reason the line is busy is so trivial…

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Microtension: Bruce breaks into the room and the feeling of the scene almost immediately slows down. Nancy and Jonathan freeze. We’re in his scene now. This kind of control that he has not only over himself, but also the pace of the scene, of the other characters, portrays a level of power that is meant to send nothing less than existential dread into the heart of the viewer. It’s very similar to the rubble scene in Spider-Man: Homecoming; we suddenly get a sense that our protagonists – and we, by proxy – are incredibly small and helpless in this situation.

It’s also interesting because it relates metaphorically back to earlier parts of the season. Bruce and Tom were Nancy and Jonathan’s bosses at The Hawkins Post, and both lorded that power over the two of them (but especially Nancy) in cruel and unfair ways. It’s actually a fascinating parallel.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Microtension: The phone drops; the door is unlocked. Two things that seemed like very intelligent ideas for Nancy and Jonathan to have at the time; gone in a second. More of that clear power imbalance at play.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Microtension: While it most likely was a prop and didn’t actually weigh much, the way the actor playing Bruce is able to feign the weight of the stool with his actions – the firm placement of his hands, the push-down, then pick-up, the way that he raises it over his head – actually does a lot to add weight to the scene (hehe). While the amount of time between him picking up the stool and bringing it down is short (less than 10 seconds), it feels like a long, anxiety-inducing buildup of its own because we immediately get the sense that the stool is a big deal.

In this day and age, many audiences have become fairly desensitized to cinematic fight sequences like this one. People get thrown around, headbutted, punched, bloodied and bruised all the time in sci-fi/fantasy, and they turn out relatively fine. The fact that the actors and director were able to make this particular blow mean something more is crazy to think about. I mean, just look at it. I think most people would instinctively recoil the way I did when seeing that part for the first time; it’s like, “Oh, crap, ouch.” Even Natalia Dyer, who plays Nancy and knew the scene already, had that same reaction when watching it for a featurette.

Stranger Things 3 Cast Charlie Heaton & Natalia Dyer Break Down a Scene | Shot by Shot | Netflix: Youtube

CHAPTER THREE : WHAT DID WE LEARN TODAY, KIDS?

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

With Jonathan out of commission, Nancy now takes to the halls, no longer running – essentially fast-walking. It’s a way of emphasizing that she’s injured, sure, but it also plays once again into that idea that the whole scene is being played on Flayed Bruce’s level.

At this point in time, Nancy and Jonathan’s scenes separate off into respective demonstrations of two of the different character empathy-building categories we’ve already seen at play: Nancy’s chase is the frenetic, fast-paced panic, and Jonathan’s is the slow, painful, hopeless desperation. These two sentiments are now cut together into a sequence that effectively keeps the viewer uneasy and on the edge of their seat because of the quick, subtle, continuous shifts in tone.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Nancy’s chase: she begins to run, she grabs a fire extinguisher and locks herself in a room. It’s that same frantic, yet intelligent decision making we saw at the beginning of the scene, used to make us root for her more.

Meanwhile Jonathan’s parts are taking nearly the opposite approach. When Tom returns, the scenes are achingly desperate – he is obviously going to win. The abject hopelessness in Jonathan’s fight is meant to inspire pity and empathy from the viewer. Like with the metal stool earlier, this fight contains a lot of stuff that is supposed to just make you feel that sense of “Oof, brutal.”

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Playing with Bruce’s slow, steady control one more time – but this time, also playing with our expectations as well. We, as an audience, believe that Nancy is behind the last curtain, because that’s the only hiding place we have yet seen.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

And here we have Chekov’s scissors. Another great example of playing with the Chekov’s gun effect we talked about earlier by setting up the scissors in one shot, creating our expectation that Jonathan will grab them to turn the tide in the fight, then cutting away and coming back – only to have him not reach them in time. Rough.

As hard as it might be to watch, that kind of brutality gets the audience to feel deeply for the character in the scene. There’s almost nothing as easy to root for as an underdog.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

And here it is – at the last moment, Nancy gets the upper hand, subverting that power/powerless macrotension we’ve been dealing with.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

I know I complained about the editing earlier, but here, it’s actually pretty good. It juxtaposes the two scenes, reinforcing the theme that the two Flayed monsters are connected, and ending the fight smoothly and quickly.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

After the Flayed monsters die, usually one would project a feeling of relief onto the last shots of Nancy and Jonathan. But the lights are still flickering – macrotension at work, indicating that this isn’t over.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Here again, we return to that theme of power, control over the scene. The camera follows these goop monsters. Nancy and Jonathan do too, in anxious anticipation.

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

The flickering intensifies; the lights go out. Then –

Stranger Things 3: Netflix

Bam! What an introduction! Not only is that amazing CGI, it’s freaking terrifying too.

I hold, though, that this dope reveal would be much less powerful if it weren’t for the scenes before it; you could say that the chase was, in itself, a macrotension being used to amp up the audience’s horror, all for this reveal.

In conclusion:

The 2018 Flop that Deserves a Sequel

This Razzie nominee was met with universal ‘meh’ upon release…

but what if it’s secretly genius? 

There is a definite chance that I have seen Robin Hood in theaters more than any other human alive.

I’ve seen it twice.

Starring Taron Egerton (an actor who, for no good reason, often gets the shaft in terms of role-age) as Robin and Jamie Foxx as Little John, the film made in its whole run what Avengers: Endgame made on a Friday afternoon (and during Christmas, no less!). From day one, Robin Hood was almost universally panned and was considered by some to be one of the worst movies of the year, thanks to its muddle of a plot, confusing anachronisms and seemingly lazy writing. The result? A box-office flop with three Razzie nominations and a 15% on Rotten Tomatoes. In no way, something an audience or studio would want to see more of. But… should they?

Welcome to The Film Nerd Thinks Too Much, folks, where today – that’s right – my goal is to convince you to want a sequel for the worst blockbuster of 2018.

Robin Hood opens with a witty narration by Friar Tuck, telling the audience to ‘forget everything we think we know’ about the character. This corresponds with the goal of the film, which, according to director Otto Bathurst, was to present a fresh take on the semi-beloved character. While pretty much every review out there will say otherwise, I believe that Bathurst achieved that goal through intentional misdirection and subtext.

So, do what the friar says; forget everything you think you know about this movie.

It’s actually incredibly easy to see the entire story of Robin Hood in a different light if you pay attention to the minutia. Egerton’s Robin Hood is not the cocky, sharpshooting outlaw you know from previous iterations of the character. He’s scared. Of like, everything. He’s not smooth at all, and not a particularly convincing liar, either. He’s really not one to try and start a revolution, despite the fact that that is…the actual plot of the film. In fact, even though his supposed arc in the film is to train, shoot up the bad guys, steal from the rich, give to the poor, and eventually lead a commoner uprising, pretty much every decision Robin makes in this movie involves saving or sparing someone.

The first minutes of the film see Robin drafted by the Sheriff into fighting in the crusades. In these first scenes, he risks his life multiple times to save a patrolmember. Afterward, he is shot by his commander when he tries to save the son of a prisoner from being beheaded. This leads to one of the things that I found most interesting and alluring about the character. This iteration of Robin has a total distaste for conflict; most action guy flicks like this revel in war and fighting but here? Robin is shown walking around in his own camp, seeing the brutal way his own men are treating their POWs and he starts crying – This is in the first 20 minutes of the film, mind you, before we’ve seen any Hooding whatsoever, and we’ve got this sad guy crying, and he’s our action movie protagonist.

Point is, all of the choices Robin makes for himself in the film are in fact, pacifism oriented. If you’re wondering why I said “for himself,” you are quite astute and probably know where I’m going with this already but here’s why:

When Robin meets Little John – who, for those of you who didn’t see the film, is that father of the prisoner that Robin failed to save (because of course he is) – he has just returned home after recovering from his injury in the war, only to find that the Sheriff of Nottingham has foreclosed on his house, taken all his money, and Marian is with Jamie Dornan now (which, just a sidenote; this shouldn’t surprise you, Rob, it’s Jamie Freakin’ Dornan). Legitimately right after finding this out, Little John, having stowed away on Robin’s boat, (because of course he did) comes up to him and offers him revenge in the form of robbing the Sheriff of Nottingham blind.

Robin, surprise, doesn’t love the Sheriff, and agrees. It’s literally a heat of the moment decision, and later on, when Robin doubts the plan, John tells him that the only way he could possibly win Marian back is through this. Even from the beginning, John is using Robin’s sadness and anger at his turn of fate in order to convince him to accept his revenge plans. From the beginning, this isn’t about what Robin wants or needs, it’s about revenge. John’s revenge.

In order to complete the plan, Robin has to avoid Marian, schmooze up to the Sheriff, and literally kiss the rings of the very people who ruined his life. And for what? What does it give him? Marian? No, that just happens to work out for him anyway. Satisfaction? No, judging on how he is characterized and how the movie turns out.

Robin even says himself, at the climax of the film, after John is captured and supposedly killed, that he was done with it all; that it was John who roped him into it in the first place. In what I believe is the most telling scene of the film, after John is taken, Robin confesses to Marian that everything he did, he only did for her, to win her back.

But before we dive too deep into that whole thing, Let’s go back to the beginning.

The film opens with the aforementioned “forget everything you think you know” narration, but it also includes another; “This story starts with a thief; but not the one you know.” A woman breaks into a stable to steal a horse, only to be caught by Robin. He is immediately enchanted by her, but she is having none of it. All she cares about is the horse. He agrees to give it to her, as long as she tells him her name. With a smile, she removes her face covering and tells him; “Marian.”

The narration then tells us of how much Robin loved her. We don’t see much of that, just one scene of the two of them spinning around…a lot. And smiling. And spinning more. And apparently there was a deleted scene where he taught her how to shoot. But…there’s not much there. That’s when Robin gets the draft notice, and when he goes off to war. After Robin is mistakenly pronounced dead, Marian moves on to Jamie Dornan, who is a prominent political figure among the commoners, I guess – *sigh* – listen, I’m not defending the whole movie here, just the overall story.

When Robin returns, we slowly learn that while he and John were off bagging steel and stealing bags, Marian and Tuck (for some reason) were planning on sneaking into the palace to find evidence of the sheriff and church’s misdoings. Their reasoning behind this? You’d think it would be to fight injustice, or something along those lines, but that is not the direction this movie takes it at all. No, in fact, Marian really, really wants to lead the commoners in a coup d’etat (because of course she does?). This fact leads her to a fight with Jamie Dornan around the middle of the movie, who does not want a commoner’s revolt, but Marian is upset because he’s the only one with enough influence over the people to lead any kind of revolution. Fifty Shades over here is having absolutely none of it, but, luckily for Marian, that exact moment is when Robin does his first ride through the commoner’s village, literally making it rain for the peasants. Marian runs out, sees this, and you can almost see the lightbulb go off above her head.

So, of course, Marian then infiltrates a weird Moulin Rouge costume party that the Sheriff is throwing and sneaks into the storage rooms, where she finds evidence that the bad guys are doing… eh… blah blah blah, you get it, they’re evil. She’s like “Okay, this will definitely inspire a revolution,” and so she brings this to Jamie Dornan and he, rationally, doesn’t care because he doesn’t want people to die in a pointless power grab. She argues that she’s just afraid his power might be taken from him by the Hood which, honestly, might’ve been true, Jamie Dornan’s character was strongly underdeveloped but yeah that doesn’t…matter…really…

After this, the sheriff has his men attack the mines where all the poor people live (because of course they do), and there’s this huge action setpiece, and through a bunch of convoluted events Marian finds out that Robin is the Hood. This is also when John is captured and Robin and Marian have the aforementioned heart to heart.

She tells him that she believed in him all along, that the fight is bigger than him now, that he’s always had this inside of him. Robin confesses to Marian that everything he did, he did for her to win her back. Then, of course, Marian says she understands and confesses she loves him and supports him and no, I’m just kidding, she uses him! She was trying to use him the whole time, and not just him; she wanted a war so bad that she manipulated anyone and everyone she could to get it.

Why do you think she moved from Robin to Jamie Dornan of all people? I mean, presumably ignoring the fact that he’s Jamie Dornan. She didn’t even tell Robin her name until she knew she would get something out of it. And when Graham – eh – Jamie – tells her he won’t start her war, she moves on to preaching for the Hood. And when she finds out that Robin is The Hood, all she needs to do in this scene is convince him to trust her, which should be easy because he literally just told her that everything he had done so far he did for her.

Thinking about it, this makes much more sense in the context of the film. Marian had just learned that Robin was the Hood, had just learned that John even existed. The very first thing she did is drag Robin away from the fight when the tides were turning against him. Then she told him that John chose him for a reason, even though she didn’t even know anything about John.

She tells him that she always saw this side of him, that the “rich person” side of him was never the real him, but what did we see of that? We literally just saw them spinning and smiling. and Robin was actually really good at the whole rich people thing; he was presumably already accustomed to that life seeing he was a lord before the events of the movie. In fact, a lot of the film was him pretending to be interested in gaining the Sheriff’s favor by doing all the rich people things. Point is, Marian tells Robin all these things, knowing he’ll listen, because he’s literally head over heels for her, and has no idea what he’s doing.

It’s not even unreasonable to conclude that Marian dated Robin in the first place for the same reason that Robin gave his money to the Sheriff. She very well might’ve gotten involved with him in the first place because she knew she could have sway over him and he was in a position of power.

The revenge plot was John’s idea, and he was willing to use Robin’s anger against him to fulfill it. The war was Marian’s idea, and she was willing to use anyone to get it. And Robin was just the fall guy; taken at his weakest moment and formed into their weapon.

This narrative is also supported by many thematic occurrences in the film; things that look like they don’t matter whatsoever that, in this new context, gain a lot of meaning and symbolism.

For instance: one of the biggest motifs in this movie was the church, which in this case, was the villain – the whole church, I guess – but also, the church characters who were evil didn’t represent the whole church, and they were working with the Sheriff, and they had a plan about something something, working with the Arabs I think….basically, the whole villain situation in this movie was a complete mess. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was vague and confusing because the sheriff and the cardinal…ish…guy… weren’t the villains?

The law and the church; in the original Robin Hood tale, part of the intrigue was that the two things that were supposed to represent the greatest good were actually corrupt and selfish, and the bandit, the outlaw, was the one working towards good. But we know this story now. For a fresh take on this premise like Bathurst intended, wouldn’t the natural idea be to subvert this…subversion? It would actually be clever to hide a secret betrayal within the walls of this story. Straight-up revealing that Marian had dark intentions the whole time would run the risk of being tacky a la M. Night Shyamalan (post Sixth Sense, pre Split – the Shyamalan everybody makes fun of). But subtly hiding clues throughout the film that the characters that we’re supposed to trust are the true manipulators? That’s a pretty neat idea, don’t you think?

Another motif involves the fact that one of the things you notice in this movie is that Robin gets shot…a lot. And what’s more, its always treated like its barely a big deal, he’ll just rip out the arrow and mostly…be fine? In all, it happens three times. Once, while he was in the army, he’s shot in the stomach by his superior officer, after trying to save a prisoner who was going to be beheaded. Then, while he’s Hood-ing it up, he’s shot in the left leg. Finally, during the film’s final battle, he gets shot in the chest protecting Marian. What does this mean? The director was trying to build tension in the easiest way possible and forgetting to pay it off? Maybe, but to come to a more satisfying conclusion, we turn to symbology.

Symbolically, the stomach generally represents gut instincts, and solidity in morals. The leg represents moving forward. Finally, the chest represents protection and safeness, especially of the heart. Robin getting shot in each of these specific areas is literally representing the ways in which the people who he was shot for were holding him back. The army was preventing him from trusting his instinct and saving the innocent prisoners. John’s plot for revenge was pushing him to dwell on his traumas. Marian’s manipulation just set him up to be abandoned the second she has what she wants, leaving him heartbroken – the same way she did with Jamie Dornan.

Jamie Dornan’s character also provides a lot to talk about. He, after all, doesn’t really do anything wrong in the entire movie? He doesn’t do anything, to be sure, but by the end of the film, he’s supposed to have become evil, evil enough to become the new Sheriff of Nottingham, and leading the very patriarchy he hated. Sure, he’s jealous of Marian’s interest in Robin…kind of, but Robin was also jealous of Marian’s interest in Jamie. At the end of the movie, he gets burned Two-Face style by a molotov cocktail (which…they have?), watches Marian leave without him, and becomes the new Sheriff of Nottingham, which is supposed to make him bad, but in reality he actually had the exact same motivations for taking the job as Robin did for vigalante-ing. He was forced into a war he didn’t want to fight, only to suffer a debilitating injury, and lose the girl that he loved.

In fact, he was more right than Robin. Near the end of the film, Rob and Marian encourage the townspeople to rise up and revolt, while Will (Oh, Jamie Dornan’s name in the movie is Will, by the way!) is trying to get them to evacuate so no one else, you know, dies. This is actually more consistent of a plan with the kind of person Robin has shown himself to be in the past, and later we even see him regret starting the fight and give himself up to try and end it. So why did he want to start the war? Because this was the scene right after Robin’s talk with Marian.

Actually – and I couldn’t believe this until I saw it again – when Robin and Will go to shake hands, agreeing to lead the people in a revolt, the scene is dark, lit in mainly blue tones. There is a fire burning off to the side, however it is not very present in the shot. Marian is in the background of the shot. As their hands meet, the fire – out of nowhere – flashes bright, unnatural red onto the screen; right on Marian. On nothing else. On nothing else. On NOtHiNG eLSE.

On my second time watching, I tried to pay careful attention during the scene with Robin and Marian talking after John is taken. If you listen, you actually hear Marian’s theme, soft and beautiful, playing under his dialogue. Then, when Marian responds with her lines, the music turns dark, to a minor note. Back to Robin, soft and beautiful. Back to Marian; once again, dark, mysterious…evil, even.

Marian is literally the bad guy. She chose Robin to be the perfect, wealthy leader of her peasant’s revolution. When he died-or seemingly so- she moved on to the next powerful person with influence over the people. Then he doesn’t agree with her plans, so she moves on to the Hood…she’s just lucky that all he was already in love with her.

That’s not even all; there are strong indications that the movie might also be seen as a complement to modern-day issues, metaphoric for the current state of veteran’s affairs, the endless cycle of violence, and the way society treats PTSD victims. Even the movie’s many anachronisms, from machine-gun bow and arrows, to village people wearing tunics and hoodies, can be used to explain this. The visible blend of modern and medieval aesthetics are an indication of the fact that this movie is not to be totally taken at its word in terms of setting, and that much of the events of the film are meant to represent the modern day.

There were rumblings when Robin Hood came out that it was intended to be the first in a franchise. The ending, a bit open-ended, assists in that narrative as well. Almost as soon as the first reviews were released, it was clear that wouldn’t be happening. But looking at the film in this new light makes me want a sequel. I’d like to see if Marian was intended to be, in fact, a slow-burn villain. I want to look back at this film and be able to see the steady build of the true storyline, one of innocence and emotional manipulation, hidden under the careful guise of another unfeeling, by-the-book action blockbuster.

I get it. Robin Hood is a terrible movie. Objectively, it’s not good. But you know what? I watched this movie twice, and for all of its weirdness and, at times, utter stupidity, I actually kind of enjoyed it, both times. I came up with this whole theory in between the first and second time I saw it, and watching it with that in mind just … entirely changed the viewing experience for me, making me love it in all totally unique ways.

What’s more, it really made me think about how we need to eliminate the idea that we have to take the director’s word for it; we’re not allowed to take a story into our own hands. Why should we leave a film at the closing credits? Why should we not look for more?  Why wasn’t John manipulating Robin, why wouldn’t Marian be the real villain? Why can’t this terrible, cash-grab failure of a movie be secretly, the smartest movie of the year?

One of the very last scenes in the movie takes place in the woods, after Robin and his crew end the fighting and escape to Sherwood Forest. Here, Robin muses about their turn of events, how he was a lord, and now he’s an outlaw, and says to Marian; “I didn’t see any of it coming.”

In response, Marian holds him close and says, with a glowing smile; “I did.”

Metaphorical Magic and the Unreliable Narrator, Part One: ‘The Haunting of Hill House’

I’m basically a hidden-ghost-finder for contrived plot theories that the director did not do on purpose.

I love using film as a metaphor. I love those movies with layers and layers of meaning like a Shrek-onion. Unlike most, I’ve always loved the “It was all a dream” ending, too. Many feel that finding out last-minute that everything was in a character’s head is cheap, but, to be honest, I eat it up. That kind of reveal encourages the viewer to reflect on the story, look for tiny hints at the ending. This kind of ending lets you see the whole story and all the characters in a different light, usually one more true-to-life than whatever came before.

On this note, then, I want to talk about my absolute favorite kind of twist reveal; one I first adopted last fall, based on a theory I developed after watching Netflix’s The Haunting of Hill House.

Hill House, if you haven’t seen it, is technically about ghosts haunting the Crain siblings, who had lived in the titular house as children and lost their mother while there. The show was chalk-full of creepy monsters and weird goings-on, but many picked up that the actual ghosts in the show also implicitly came to represent the characters’ metaphorical ghosts.

My ideas are related to this, and revolve specifically around the oldest Crain, Steven. He is an author, and he is also the show’s “narrator,” giving opening and closing monologues that bookend the season. Each of the five siblings Crain, in their characterization, represent both the five stages of grief and the five senses, and for Steven, his stage/sense are denial and sight, respectively.

These motifs surrounding Steve run rampant throughout the 8 episodes of Hill House. He is the straightman of sorts; the one Crain to deny that strange things ever happened to them when they lived in Hill House; the one who continually advocated that he and his siblings were just all crazy. Whenever monsters were in the area, he closes his eyes or looks away. Even in the promo pictures for the show, the rest of the family is looking forward, but Steve looks down.

This is tied very closely into Steve’s denial. He hardly ever expresses the grief he feels, and when he does it’s in short, volatile bursts. The occupations the adult Crains have also have strong connections to their characters; it is implied that Steve writes as a coping mechanism, and that he can’t fully process anything unless he’s written it down.

The Haunting of Hill House (Netflix, 2018).

This forms the basis of my theory/storytelling mechanism/whatever you want to call it; the metaphorical spirits and the unreliable narrator.

The main conflict of the adult Crains’ story is the suicide of their sister Nell in the old house, something that brings back memories for the rest of the Crains and forces them back together to work out their long-buried issues. Nell is the first and the most prominent ghost seen in the show, showing up as a silent watcher in many scenes, and monologuing a beautiful farewell in the final episode. She also is the only ghost that Steve ever sees (until the finale), despite there being creatures, hidden and unhidden, scattered throughout the show.

The way I see it, the ghosts in Hill House aren’t just surrogates for metaphor, they are metaphor. The way I see it, the story of Hill House, or at least the supernatural parts, is made up-by Steven.

The pieces, of course, are all there. Steven is a horror author. He processes grief by writing about it. He was called out in the show for writing his family’s story and taking some creative licenses. The show begins and ends with his narration. All the ghosts and monsters in the show are canonically connected to the characters on a deeper level.

So; the actual story of THOHH? To me, it’s not about horror or ghosts at all, although that may be the front story. It’s a story about Steve, stuck in a state of denial, coping with another loss in his life by writing it down-and embellishing some of the details, personifying his own grief and the grief of his family through literal, physical ghosts and demons haunting their lives, all leading back to the house where all of their trauma occurred.

When we enter into a storytelling experience such as watching a film or a TV show, we tend to be lenient by design as to the world these stories are set in. Sure, we question writing and direction choices as they make sense within the world, but if a ghost shows up in a horror movie, nobody stops and says, “Alright, but is that really a ghost?” It’s how twist endings like those in The Sixth Sense or Shutter Island get us; almost as if entering into a contract, we naturally accept the basic premise of that story to be true as we watch it.

So, then, my absolute favorite stories are those that step outside the bounds of storytelling themselves; ones that make us look back and not just question the formulation of the characters or the narrative, but the formulation of our own assumptions.

Once I identified this trope in Hill House, I couldn’t help questioning the supernatural elements of other films as well. So many other films could, conceivably, be just giant metaphors. To be fair to the fact that some stories simply have supernatural elements (I’m not one of those people who just assumes everything is a metaphor for something), I came up with some basic criteria before I’d consider a film/show to be Hill House-ified.

  1. The supernatural elements must represent a real-world struggle (like grief).
  2. The relevant characters must be experiencing this struggle in the story outside of the supernatural aspect (ie; The Crains were dealing with grief and trauma outside of the fact that ghosts were haunting them).
  3. The story must be, in some way, told or seemingly told by a narrator or surrogate with reason to embellish/change the story.

These sound pretty specific, sure, but I’m ravenous for good storytelling, so I was content to try and apply this theory to pretty much anything I watched. And, oh boy; you’ll never guess what I found.

Avengers Endgame: Not a Review

No spoilers here, just a thank you.

Seriously, it’s safe to read this.

When I first watched The Avengers, I was 12, and I still hold that night as one of the best moments of my life. My whole family watched it in our living room, and holy crap, from the very first minute, it changed my life. I had never seen a movie like it before; to be fair, I wasn’t a particularly adventurous film watcher. But that movie, that shot alone- the iconic spinning shot of all the Avengers- it gave me such a burst of wide-eyed adrenaline, it was like my heart would explode from joy. I had never felt anything watching a movie before but now…there was so much power in that movie. The amount of pure excitement I felt when the credits rolled on our chunky little 20 year old television was…unprecedented.

That was also one of the last times I remember my whole family spending time together, like real, family time. That was around the time my parents began fighting more. My mom got a bit rougher around the edges, my dad got a bit closer to the liquor cabinet. Us kids began to grow up. We all just…drifted apart. The whole time, we were all still under one roof, but we weren’t a family anymore. We were just…alone.

Soon after, I also began my fight with anxiety and depression (well, began might not be the right word…more like…”realized I was already fighting”). I was a teenager, going through the most difficult part of growing up, but I was doing it completely by myself. I had no family now, no mentors, and few friends. I didn’t know anything about who I was, who I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to do. In that whirlwind, Marvel was my tether. I’d come home from the crappiest night of whatever-the-hell-was-going-on-today, and, almost like magic, The Avengers would be on TV that night. I’d watch it, and every time, without fail, I’d feel that same overwhelming joy I felt the first time I saw it. I’d forget my problems for 2 hours and change. That movie was my home, the safety net to catch me when no one else would.

My best friends moved away within the same year that I had my first panic attack. This was only two years ago, now. It was by far the worst year of my life, and to be frank I don’t even remember most of it, because it was genuinely really traumatic for me, so much so that my brain just noped out and didn’t hold on to a thing. I was always at some distinct level of high anxiety, ranging from “edgy and overly wary” to “full blown panic attack.” I felt so alone and scared in this time- I had absolutely no support from anyone, anywhere, and was beginning to feel like I wasn’t worth the space I took up. The joy I used to search for, I used to watch The Avengers for, was gone, and in its place there was nothing. I literally had lost my ability to even feel things, because I knew deep down that as soon as I let myself feel joy, I’d feel the pain and loneliness, too.

I wanted to keep going, somewhere, but the negativity, the anxiety, the emptiness was overwhelming. A few times, it got so dark that I’d mark on my calendar the next day an AoS episode would air, or when the next Marvel film would come out, and I’d use it as a guiding light to convince myself to keep going, just until then. Even with that, though, I truly didn’t believe I’d ever live to see Infinity War, or Infinity War Part 2 (as Endgame was then called).

That was the year Spiderman: Homecoming came out. I was 15. I went to see it in theaters twice and those two showings are one of the only things I remember from the whole year. That movie, in all its dorky, relatable silliness, gave my sense of joy back, if only momentarily. I felt that same distinct sense of nerdy delight I felt watching The Avengers. In fact, it was the first time I really felt anything other than anxiety in a long time. By the “Come on, Spiderman” scene, I was nearly bawling. That scene resonated so deeply with me, even deeper than I would’ve admitted at the time. That was a fifteen year old kid just doing his best, trapped under a load he couldn’t carry, totally and completely alone. And yet, he made it out. He built his strength and courage and he made it out.

Three months later, I went to therapy for the first time.

I saw Avengers: Endgame tonight. Normally, I watch movies with a pretty critical eye, always on the lookout for what they should’ve changed or cut or added. This law has pretty much no exceptions, either, even for Marvel movies. But all I could think about as I watched Endgame is how much love was poured into it. It was an epic movie by critical standards, sure. It was a fitting end to a 10 year phenomenon, absolutely. But most prominently, so much of this film was a heartfelt “Thank you” to the actors, comic writers, filmmakers and fans who made these movies what they are. It was a personal thank you to me, for watching and loving these movies so gosh darn much. It was a thank you to me for sticking around ‘till the end.

I’m 17 now, soon to turn 18. I’m about to graduate, with honors, and I’m headed to college this fall. I’ll be studying journalism, with the intention to become a film analyst/critic. I haven’t questioned whether I’m worthy of my place in the world even once in a year plus. In many, many ways it feels as if I’m on the brink beginning a brand new, brighter chapter. It only feels right that The Avengers’ journey ends at the same time as this particular journey of mine, the one they carried me through.

To a lot of people, these movies are enjoyable, but in the end, it’s just a fad. It’s a phase. A phenomenon, but soon it will be over. And you know? I know that. But it’s because of Marvel that I’m still here.

One thought kept running through my head as I watched Endgame: 

“I’m lucky to be alive right now, to see this.” 

The Seven Deadly Sins of Television Writing

It’s easy to write a TV show. It’s not easy to write it well.

This era has been coined by many as the era of peak TV. We, as a public, are swimming in TV shows; drowning in them. TV shows are things we talk about, we stream them, we buy them, we tune in at 9PM on a Tuesday for them. This much content, though, naturally leads to a “quantity over quality” effect, where most TV shows mostly sacrifice the art and craftsmanship elements of filmmaking in order to crank out as much drama (and get as many viewers) as possible. In a way that is unique to its medium, even “good” TV can pull some pretty crappy tricks to keep ads running- anyone who has watched a show during May Sweeps can tell you that.

Not all of these tricks are inherently bad, either. Some plot twists and storylines can be genuinely genius; engaging, and can even pull a viewer who was losing interest back into the fold. But, I’ve identified several different “sins” TV writers commonly commit that certainly do not fit in that category- sins that never fail ruin characters, derail narratives and polarize fans.

But, dear viewers, don’t be offended if you see these qualities in your favorite shows. If a show commits a sin, it’s not necessarily a sign of a bad writer. It’s less “If you do this you’re a bad writer” and more “Bad writers consistently do this.” Just like the actual Seven Deadly Sins, a little bit of any one of these things in a show is not, in itself, a bad thing. But a writer relying on any of these things to encourage audience engagement is lazy at best.

1 . Shark Jumping

Whether you recognize it or not, you establish all the rules of your show’s universe within, at most, the first season, but generally within the first episode. To have enough faith in your writing to allow yourself to break the laws of your own canon isn’t smart: it’s prideful at best. This doesn’t mean you can’t be innovative or outside-the-box, but if you think you can just jump outside of the boundaries you’ve already set down for yourself, You’ve got another thing coming. You’ll have to recognize that very quickly, what you do will not be supported by the framework of your show. As it buckles and bends under the weight of your ego, the audience will recognize it; so should you.

2 . Fanservicing

Making your viewers happy is important. Sure, they’re what keep you on the air. But making them happy is not the foremost concern of yours (that is, unless you see TV as many Hollywood executives do: pure moneymaking fodder and not a legitimate artistic medium). That’s not to say that you should never do anything the fans want. Instead, wait for a time in which the story naturally leads that way, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. If including a storyline, christening a ‘ship, rewriting or introducing a character is only happening because the fans want it, it’s fanservicing and it’s sinful.

Following this one will definitely get you the most flack, especially in this day and age; after all, viewers feel entitled to the show they pictured, producers feel entitled to the money viewers give them when they get the show they pictured. The true ethical writer will understand, though, that Fanservicing in its essence is all about greed; the sacrifice of the art for money and glory.

3 . Love Triangles

Hear me out, drama fans: love triangles, plain and simple, are lazy. Sure, they have a certain glitzy appeal initially, but 99.9% of the time, they’re totally hollow inside. Triangles almost always (if not always) come into play only when two characters otherwise are approaching a natural moment in which they could get together, but the writers-Bam! Throw in a curveball to keep the viewers rooting for the will they/won’t they for another half season. The interruption almost always in the form of a charming new character that one of the characters fall for, suddenly, just as they’re starting to like character X. It’s an interrpution in the natural progression of the story simply because the writers don’t know how to write an interesting relationship. It’s always jarring and always unnecessary. Plenty of TV couples remain fully ‘shippable after they’ve gotten together; Chandler and Monica, Mulder and Scully, April and Andy. If you don’t think a couple is watchable unless they’re yearning for each other from afar, you’ve clearly never seen good television.

4 . Resurrection

You miss the actor. You miss the character. The fans miss the character. You’re jealous of the past you, the you that had this other character to play with, and it’s tempting to just bring them back to life and be done with it. Whatever it is, though, you can’t just bring somebody back. Alright, maybe they faked their death? Sure, if there’s a plausible way to execute that in-canon. It’s them but from an alternate universe? You’re on thin ice but maybe, if it’s not totally out of the blue. But don’t bring somebody back if you’re sacrificing plausibility. The trite, meaningless trend of character resurrection has single-handedly cheapened dramatic television. Nowadays, a drama show is considered “bold” when those that die stay dead. We’ve been inundated with “don’t worry, they’ll be back next season” and it’s the fault of writers who can’t handle their own choices.

5 . Revising Canon

Don’t change or rewrite your own canon because you don’t like it anymore. You made your bed. Lie in it. I know, you just want more options, more storyline opportunities, and “It would all work if only you could just…”

But you can’t. That ship has sailed, and at this point, changing your canon, even through a macguffin, is just confusing for the viewer. Work with what you have! Good stories are not borne from a bunch of interesting ideas smashed together, they’re from the carefully formulated progression of people, places and things into one cohesive narrative.

6 . Clickbaiting

This sin is similar to fanservicing, but even worse because you don’t even include the things the fans want, you just pretend that you will, and encourage their speculation about and anticipation of a storyline with no intention of actually addressing it. This hurts your story, this hurts your fans, and it does absolutely nothing for you in the long run. It feels like you’re against the fans, that it’s you vs. them. It’s not a clever tactic to gain eyeballs, it’s a cruel trick at best.

7 . Exposition/Unnecessary Flashbacks

This is, by far, the laziest route you could take. Sure, it’s much easier to use exposition to get necessary plot information out of the way. It’s much easier to flash back to a scene to remind the viewer of what they need to know. But neither one shows any care or effort on your part. You have a “previously on.” You have the ability to hint at things and strongly imply. BBC’s recent hit Bodyguard is a phenomenal example of a show that doesn’t rely on these sins to get by. I felt so refreshed watching it; not once do any of the main characters explain their relationships to one another, not once are any plot devices explained to a room of people who should already know what they are. Instead, the viewer is allowed to naturally pick up on these things for themselves. Not only does this put you best foot forward to your fans-you’re not questioning their intelligence- but it also allows the viewer to get an even stronger sense of intimacy with your story, because they feel as if they learned these things themselves instead of being told.

Luckily for any writers who do commit these sins, this doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. There is, in fact, one unified solution that solves all of these issues. It’s quite simple too: trust the viewer. Let me say that again, because it’s important:TRUST THE VIEWER. Trust that they’ve been paying attention. Trust that they’re invested in the story you’re telling. Trust that you don’t have to go to great lengths to keep them around. Tell the story you have in your head, let it go where it goes naturally.

If you don’t trust your viewer to understand and like your show you’re doing it wrong. After all, if they’re watching, they already care. Don’t screw that up. Apply yourself.

‘Captain Marvel’ Review: O Captain, My Captain

Marvel’s first female lead stuns, even if her movie doesn’t quite.

I might be a bad feminist.

Frankly, from the very first promo photos, my expectations for “Captain Marvel” were exceedingly low. Marvel hadn’t had a true flop since “Thor: The Dark World” in 2014, but the more that came out for the Brie Larson-led flick, the more I was convinced that Marvel was about to hit a speed bump at 400 mph. The trailers, clips, everything; nothing provided any sense that the film had any substance at all.

My fears were somewhat founded, as I learned in a Regal Cinema the week after “Marvel”‘s massive $400 million opening. But, while the movie did fall flat for me, pretty much every assumption I made about it was still wrong.

In all, the film is well-produced, with the directorial stylings of Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck giving it a certain down to earth feel that makes it unique from every other Marvel property. The choices made in the editing, cinematography, SFX and production design departments were refreshing and, at times, nothing short of genius. Larson, in the title role, is ridiculously charismatic, and (unlike what the trailers had led me to believe,) doesn’t phone it in for a second.

Unfortunately, the movie’s selling points can’t fully make up for its issues, most of which are writing-based. The film’s structure is strange, so that it doesn’t ever really feel as if there’s any kind of buildup or climax, and a plot twist bridging the second and third acts shifts the narrative so intensely that the viewer loses a bit of steam. The plot structure, in its current state, almost feels like it would have been more fitting for a television show, with plenty of time to let story arcs stew, rather than a 2 hour movie (ironically, this movie features Phil Coulson again, for the first time on the silver screen since his death in “The Avengers.” With all its connections to Coulson and the Kree, I genuinely wonder if this would’ve been better to see as part of a season of “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.”)

The writing room struggles are the most clear when you consider the movie’s characters. I actually found Ben Mendelsohn’s character the only one that I ended up feeling any kind of emotion toward at all. Much of the rest of the supporting cast ranges from “seemingly likable” to “forgettable,” to be frank. Even though this is Carol Danvers’ movie, I feel as if I knew just as much about her in the first minute of the movie than I did in the last. We never see a real moment of definition for Carol, and there is seemingly not even an attempt to connect her to the audience, save for a shoehorned-in moment close to the end that feels like the Walmart knockoff of the now-iconic No Man’s Land scene in 2017’s “Wonder Woman.” Beyond Larson’s charms, I felt nothing to keep me invested in Carol as a character whatsoever.

Despite that, “Marvel” also manages to do something I didn’t even know was possible: sell me on a hero without selling me on the alter-ego. I had been concerned about how Marvel was going to demonstrate that this was their most powerful superhero ever; with heavy-hitters like Thor and Doctor Strange in the mix, I genuinely thought it might’ve been impossible. Luckily, they more than did their job. As you may be able to tell, for most of the film, my mind was distinctly in critic-mode; often imagining how I would’ve written or directed the scenes to “fix” them, but all of that stopped the moment Captain Marvel’s powers were first unleashed in all their glory. I will say: that scene is fantastic, and put me solidly in the camp of: “Thanos better run while he still can!”

All this aside, I gotta put in a little disclaimer; while it isn’t up to the usual standard, it’s not often that a Marvel movie is unworthy of your watch time, and “Captain Marvel” is no exception. It doesn’t quite hit the mark, but it is still by all means a fun ride to be on, carried lovingly on the backs of Larson, Boden and Fleck. I also appreciated that the “because I’m a woman” aspect of it wasn’t really forced on the viewer like it was in “Wonder Woman;” just leaving more time for the good Captain’s bada**-ness to speak for itself.

“Captain Marvel” took a lot of risks, a majority of which paid off. But good production design and a stellar lead performance don’t counteract the many mistakes clearly made in the film’s writers room. For better or for worse, “Captain Marvel” left me wanting much, much more from Carol Danvers; luckily for me, “Avengers: Endgame” is just around the corner- maybe the Russo Brothers have carved out a bit of their three-hour runtime to make up for lost time.

Review: ‘The Last Five Years’

The 2015 musical is a touching encapsulation of the story surrounding a failed marriage.

Watching “The Last Five Years” feels uncannily like looking at a museum piece, or into a snowglobe.

In spite of its shortcomings, the 2015 film adeptly portrays a simple, rich love story; one that’s not weighed down by the same predictable tropes, cheap attempts at making you cry, and sugary-sweet cliches of the majority of romantic movies in recent memory.

Anna Kendrick and Jeremy Jordan in “The Last Five Years.”

Based on a 2002 musical by Jason Robert Brown, the film’s premise revolves around the five-year relationship between struggling actress Cathy (Anna Kendrick), and Jamie (Jeremy Jordan), an author, as they both try to launch their respective careers. The premise is fairly plain on paper, but is made remarkable by the way it’s told. The movie alternates between both characters’ POVs; zig-zagging between his perspective, starting from the beginning of the relationship and moving to the end, and hers, starting at the end and going back to the beginning.

The aforementioned snowglobe effect comes mainly from this factor; being able to see the juxtaposition of the buildup of the relationship and its bitter downfall provides the viewer with both a calculated distance from the story and an easier, more personal connection to it. It also makes it so that there is nothing the viewer can’t see coming-there is no such thing as spoilers here. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing might be up to the individual, but it’s refreshing to see a film that doesn’t rely so heavily on plot twists to keep the audience invested. 

Director Richard LaGravanese portrays the complicated back-and-forth setup as simply as possible, but the pure complexity of the premise still does get confusing at times. It’s clear that, hard as he may try, the source material’s stage-friendly setup couldn’t transition to film totally seamlessly. In spite of that, LaGravanese deserves praise for his ability to switch between the two timelines every five minutes or so without giving the viewer any sense of mental whiplash. Not once does the viewer get the sense that two scenes don’t fit together; they connect and disjoint in (often literally) melodic ways, offering engrossing parallels to each other. This allows us to watch promises made and broken in the same few minutes; watch character flaws unravel in enigmatic fashion; watch the relationship slowly come together, then twist apart. The viewer is allowed to slowly put together the broken pieces of the titular five years on their own, like a puzzle.

The romance central to “The Last Five Years” isn’t conventional for film. 

“The Last Five Years” is in no way the kind of blockbuster romance you generally see in theaters: it’s not a linear narrative of “boy meets girl, they fall in love” so much as an examination; a character study on the complex clash between love and unmet expectations. In Brown and LaGravenese’s world, there’s no right or wrong, no hero or villain, just two characters, in turns likable and despicable, being broken down and analyzed step-by-step onscreen. 

Kendrick and Jordan, essentially the only speaking (er, singing) parts in the entire movie, both prove equally capable of working with the material given them. Both show off both the glaring flaws as well as the strengths of their characters with ease and subtlety. Kendrick’s Cathy is sweet, and funny, and ridiculously relatable, but at the same time easily jealous, and unbearably naive. Jordan’s Jamie is intelligent, thoughtful, and romantic, but often with a sense of inflated ego and a Veruca Salt-style “give it to me now” entitlement. Both actors really lean into those elements, unafraid of showing the audience the ugliest parts of Cathy and Jamie’s personalities as well as their relationship. 

“The Last Five Years” shows both the good and bad of its characters with honesty.

The same quiet complexity seen in the film’s plot is echoed in its camerawork and production design. There’s no special effects here, no more than the lighting effects, beginning at “Rom-Com Sunny Yellow” and dimming proportionately in scenes set closer to the end of the relationship. It’s all delicately staged so that every line has meaning, and that every setup, and action, and choice of direction leads the viewer deeper into the mind of the troubled protagonists. 

The film is very song-heavy, even for musical standards, with hardly any dialogue at all. This means that if you aren’t a fan of musical storytelling, there’s a higher-than-likely chance this movie won’t be for you. For those viewers who do enjoy movie musicals (and especially bittersweet ones, such as 2017’s “La La Land,” which shares a few similarities with this film), this would make a more than worthy addition to your watch-list. 

“The Last Five Years” has to be admired, at the very least, for setting out on a mission to literally display every feasible facet of a modern relationship almost entirely through song and visual-and, seemingly, succeeding. While it’s just not adaptable for everyone’s tastes, for those who enjoy musicals, bold statements about flawed humanity, movies meant to make you think, or just a really, really well told story, this film isn’t just a recommendation: it’s a must-see. 

“The Last Five Years” is available for purchase on Amazon, ITunes and Google Play.

The Wild and Wacky Genius of Supernatural

The CW Tentpole has stayed on the air for almost 15 years by doing what few other shows have dared to do.

I have a theory: all TV shows have a shelf life of 7 years or less. After 7 years, no show can sustain itself at any kind of quality level.

Could be more or less, depending on the genre (dramas run shorter, generally 3-5 good seasons, comedies can reach 6 or 7), and premise (some shows were just designed to last for one season, and can’t float anything more, hence the dreaded sophomore slump).

But where the majority of television shows have slackened, Supernatural has soared, in ways that are in many ways mysterious and confusing to me…and, in others, perfectly clear.

My inaugural episode of Supernatural was in 2015; a solid 10 years after the show’s debut in September of 2005. It was the night before my first Comic-con, and my good friends, longtime fans of the show, played for me “The French Mistake”; a joyful, self-referential episode that, to this day, remains one of my favorite hours not only of Supernatural but of any show on TV. It took more than 3 years since that first episode to work up the courage to binge (although, if it takes 2 full months, does it really count as a binge?) the entire series to date; all 300 episodes (alright, okay, I skipped “Bugs”, but I can assure any TV writers right this minute, if you ever make an episode of anything and call it “Bugs”, I won’t watch it).

To be entirely honest, 300 of almost anything is a lot, and just by the power of probability, 300 hours of entertainment is bound to deliver more than its fair share of duds. Knowing this, in addition to my experience as a TV watcher, I had very definite expectations from this endeavor: just like every other show I’d ever watched, it would A) start rocky, finding its footing by the end of season 1, B) hit a peak either in season 1, 2 or 3, and C) decline linearly in quality from there, finally breathing its last, shaky breaths by season 6 or 7. After all, things change. Television landscapes change and, even if a show survives past those initial seasons, it’s hard to think of any show that’s truly remained at a good quality for longer, much less a 23-episode-per-season procedural, much, much less one on The CW, a channel not exactly revered for its quality entertainment.

For a long time, I really believed I had hit it spot-on, too. Seasons 1-3 were like a joyride, a whir of rock n’ roll and monsters; you know, testosterone, but in a fun way. The first seasons felt, aptly, like taking a road trip, greasy food and crappy motels and wheels on the pavement. An exciting ride, to be sure, and very well made. By season 4, though, that feeling began to subside. This marked the first crucial change in the show’s style and general premise, as it introduced angels, the concept of heavenly wars, and the show’s first miraculous and mysterious reincarnation; all things that most know later became common themes. For 99.9% of shows, a change like this would be a surefire signal of the end. The sudden shift of focus would feel uncomfortable and strange, focus on new characters would be poorly received, and I as a viewer would begin to reminisce about ‘the good old days’ of seasons past. It’s a tale as old as time…or at least as old as basic cable. That’s how it was for Supernatural, too-or, at least how it started.

Season 4 was certainly a bit of a step down in overall enjoy-ability, but it still had some standouts. Before then, the show had taken a few dips into the realm of ‘comedic’ episodes; Season 2’s “Tall Tales”, and Season 3’s “Bad Day at Black Rock” and “Mystery Spot”. All three of these episodes, while truly funny, had themes and undertones that still fit in with the show’s overarching plots, and they all had some kind of thematic lesson involved for the characters. This changed quickly with Season 4 episodes 5 and 6: “Monster Movie” and “Yellow Fever”. The former was an all B&W tribute to 50’s monster films; the show’s first real foray into the territory of adding creative twists to an episode’s form, as well as their first real ‘tribute’ episode. The latter was solely a showcase for the comedic stylings of star Jensen Ackles, and marked the first episode of the show that was funny just for the sake of being fun (and believe me, it’s fun. If I could make Dean whimpering “That was scary” my ringtone, I would). While the main plot of S4 wasn’t as thrilling as the previous 3, it continued on with a few more solid outings; namely, “Wishful Thinking”, “Sex and Violence” and “The Monster at the End of this Book”.

By season 5, though, instead of continuing the expected gradual ride downhill begun by the previous season, the show soared in quality out of the blue. Season 5 saw Supernatural settling into its new skin, per se, and ending on a high note in “Swan Song” (the highest, according to IMDb). Although I’ll never forgive them for killing off Jo like that, it’s almost like in season 5, Supernatural, much like its main characters, looked death in the face and said “Not today, bitch.”

If a show isn’t doomed by its first shift in narrative focus, though, it certainly is the departure of the original showrunner. This is what Supernatural faced entering its 6th season. Once again, things got particularly hairy, quality-wise, here as well, and despite season 6 holding on the best it could (the addition of the aforementioned “French Mistake” helped, surely), I truly thought that by the time I reached season 7, I was finally witnessing the predicted decline of the show; the beginning of the end. Admittedly, seasons 7 and 8 did struggle in many ways; to find interesting plotlines, to support the evolving TV landscape (the early 2010’s saw a lot of changes in programming with Netflix bursting onto the content-making scene), and to top the lofty personal and general stakes of previous seasons. Both seasons still provided a few standouts (the touching “Hello, Cruel World” and the amusing “Hunter Heroici” among them), but, overall, my theory was by all means proving correct.

Until it wasn’t.

Seasons 9 and 10 were more or less forgettable, and still felt as if they were made by a writing team clinging desperately for ideas, but were still a definite improvement over 7 and 8 (the first surprise; not the last). The guts the writers had to have to make “Dog Dean Afternoon” were impressive on their own, and I personally loved the creative liberties they took to make episodes like “Alex Annie Alexis Ann” and “The Werther Project”. Season 11, though, was what blew me truly away; it felt completely new, as if someone had breathed a brand new life into the show. Sure, the villain wasn’t nearly fleshed out enough, but if you came to this show for the villains you probably wouldn’t have even made it to season 11 anyway.

While, in the previous seasons, standout episodes were the welcome exception, Season 11 made them the rule. From the heartfelt (“Red Meat”, “Alpha and Omega”) to the out-of-the-box (“Plush”, “Beyond the Mat”) to the ones that somehow beautifully blend both qualities, (“The Vessel”, “Baby”, “Safe House”, to name a few), Season 11 of Supernatural felt like a breath of fresh air. Seasons 12 and 13 reinforced this, following closely in Season 11’s footsteps. In addition to more standout episodes that I would recommend in a heartbeat (“Regarding Dean”, “Who We Are”, “Scoobynatural”), S12 and 13’s recruitment of Mary and Jack, respectively, added new dynamics to the show while still centering on the core themes of familial ties- but now I’m starting to get ahead of myself. 

I once took a humanities class that was based off of the philosophy of The Matrix. In this class, I read an essay by a well-respected journalist who was convinced that we, as a collective, must be in the Matrix. His reasoning, of course, was the infamous La La Land/Moonlight mix-up at the Oscars in 2017. He reasoned that this event must be an anomaly, a glitch in the Matrix-or possibly a bored architect playing with their creation. I, to this day, have no idea whether this article was satire or not. I do know, though, that the success of Supernatural reminds me of that guy, a lot. How is it that this show, one of many procedurals in TV Land, one of many, many paranormal dramas, could last so long on merit, when other shows, shows with even larger audiences, more money, more awards and more publicity in their corner could lose their luster (and their renewal status) while this quiet behemoth soldiers on?; The Office, which came out the same year to much more acclaim, The X Files, with a very similar premise, Sherlock, which attracted much of the same audience, all gone much before Supernatural… It’s gotta be a glitch in the Matrix, no?

No…What I learned from this month and a half long super-binge, though, is that the secret to Supernatural isn’t much of a secret; it’s good writing. While they have certainly made some massive duds (*cough* “Bloodlines” *cough*), it continues to truck along while other shows flower and fade. And this isn’t-it can’t be- just due to pure luck.

It seems to me that the first thing the writers of Supernatural have done is really honed in on what makes their show work; this in itself is more than a good 75% of the television writers working today can truly say. The thing that makes the show work isn’t the paranormal jaunts or the exploration into every religious lore known to man. It’s not even their avid fanbase, or their weird meta-ness, although both have certainly helped upon occasion. It’s the characters; Its Sam and Dean.

There is something inherently attractive about the Winchester brothers, (other than, you know, their inherent attractiveness); something that these writers know and use to their advantage. We, as an audience, are drawn to their devotion to each other, their quirky disfunctionality hiding the true genuine care the two have for one another. They are always-always-there for each other. Everyone who watches can certainly either relate to that primal protectiveness of those closest to us, or can at least fantasize of a family that could put each other first the way the Winchesters did. There’s this mysterious allure to the emotional undertones of the show; I believe it comes from the fact that everyone secretly loves to hear that “There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.”

Surprisingly early on, the writers obviously discovered this factoid and learned to use it to their advantage. While it clearly has contributed to the wacky meta-ness the show has become known for, inspiring episodes such as “The Monster at the End of This Book”, “The Real Ghostbusters” and “Fan Fiction”, it has also contributed to the show in an even bigger way. Despite expanding their world continually, doing the craziest plotlines, and, yes, putting out some genuinely weird episodes, everything always comes back to Sam and Dean. Their stubborn inability to learn to let each other go drives the show through the strangeness, and we, the fans, love that.

After 14 seasons, though, constantly killing the characters off and playing the same emotional cards could theoretically get stale. After one or two times, after all, the emotional impact dissipates, as the audience learns that there is no way that what dies will stay dead. Many shows use this tactic of playing up emotions, but most cannot work it out well. Deaths become cheap and hollow at best, and the few permanent deaths aren’t, frankly, believable. Other emotional factors like betrayals or plot twists become tired and repetitive (How many curses were there in Once Upon a Time, again?). Finally, major setpieces and epic villains end up stacking up against the television filmmaker, building to the point where there is no possible way they can satisfactorily ‘top’ last season’s cliffhanger without encountering this repetitiveness or jumping too far out of left field. Supernatural avoids this issue in the best way you could possibly think of.

The term ‘jump the shark’ dates all the way back to a 1973 episode of Happy Days in which Fonzie literally jumps over a shark on a jet-ski. Most Happy Days fans recognize this occurrence as the one in which the viewers could no longer reasonably suspend their disbelief for the sake of the story. Since this episode, the term “Jump the Shark” has come to stand for the point in time in which a show turns on itself; in which it goes too big, too bold, too ridiculous to be taken seriously anymore. This “jump” is also generally a precursor to the aforementioned dip in quality that every show eventually hits; Basically, your TV show either dies a hero or lives long enough to see itself jump this proverbial shark. Or, well, as you may have guessed, not all- not Supernatural.

I mean, I can tell you some pretty dopey moments, some times when I thought for sure that “they cannot make this work.” Just a few of the things that come to mind: Sam’s pointless storyline about adopting a dog in season 8, a 17 Again style episode involving the witch from Hansel and Gretel, an episode where Dean gains the ability to talk to animals (and they all have ridiculous voices), and my personal favorite: a plotline involving a Turducken sandwich made of goo that left its consumers high as a kite. But even looking back on these cringeworthy storylines, I sincerely cannot tell you a moment in which Supernatural truly jumps the shark. Or, perhaps maybe a better way to put it is that I can; they’ve been jumping the shark regularly since season 4.

See, the writers of Supernatural really know what kind of show this is. I was not watching when their first real meta episodes emerged in season 4, but I always understood them as the writers taking these concepts of “jumping the shark” and slowly declining in quality into the pit of cancellation, looking them straight in the face, and saying; “Come at me.” Television-especially procedural television-takes itself so gosh-diddly-darn seriously these days. Look at any other show on the CW and tell me that they don’t. Sure, some shows might be ‘fun’, but deep down, they want to be taken seriously; they need to be. I could write a whole ‘nother essay about the various reasons behind this, but that’s currently beyond my point. My point is that Supernatural, by wading into the crazy and making it a part of its brand, is avoiding one of the biggest pitfalls a show can come upon. You can’t criticize a show for constantly bringing back its dead characters if that in itself has become a part of the show’s structure. You can’t expect for a show to have boundaries-walls- if they’ve already shattered the fourth one (I love you, “French Mistake”).

Supernatural has made itself the show without limits. Too many TV shows get lost trying to balance what the viewers want (“How can we top whatever we did last season?”) with what is feasibly possible within the boundaries of their established universe, and eventually, they always fall victim to one or the other. Whether accidentally or on purpose, though, this one, run-of-the-mill paranormal procedural has cracked the very key to staying watchable for season after season.

Supernatural, by design, will never have a storyline too outlandish for their universe. Similarly, they will never need to work desperately to figure out what the viewers want, because they know that all we want is more of the same; You know, “Saving people, hunting things.”

I’m sure that other shows will run for longer than Supernatural will. I know it will never end up being much of a critical acclaim machine, either. I’m not sure how much of an impact the show, when it one day comes to a close, will have on the world at large. But do I know that I, barring some horrible accident where I suddenly lose all appreciation for the logistics of TV, will always admire Supernatural for all that it is and all that it accomplished.

For most shows, there will always be another of it somewhere down the road. For every Parenthood, there will be a This is Us. For every Chicago Fire, there will be a Chicago Med…or PD…or…Uber Drivers (eventually, I’m sure). But I truly don’t believe there will ever be another Supernatural on our screens… and not just because it would be almost impossible to replicate the show’s perfect storm of chemistry, acting, writing, timing, and healthy disrespect for the rules of television. It’s because-frankly-I don’t think anyone else would even have the balls.

So here’s the thing.

I’m really into talking about movies. 

I’m that person who will leave the theater, and keep talking about the movie. Everyone else will be talking about, you know, life(?… What do people talk about?) and I’m still gonna be sitting there thinking about that movie. This isn’t even a metaphor. I left the movie theater today and in between shovels of Panda Express, all I could say was “Okay, but did you guys notice this?” And like, what was going on there? What was up with that scene? 

My obsessive need for everything to make sense contributes heartily to this quirk as well. If something doesn’t seem right I’ll MAKE it right. This plot point was stupid? No it wasn’t, it was a metaphor for global warming! This character was underdeveloped? Nope, x, y and z imply that they have a romantic past with the female lead! From Robin Hood (2018) being a metaphor for the state of veteran’s affairs to Citizen Kane being the original Shane Dawson documentary, my opinions are definitely, 100% wrong, but isn’t it more fun this way? 

I find that once I get my grubby little fingers on a film, I never see it the same again. You know what? I’m willing to bet that neither will you.